


baby's breath

by chirospasms



Category: SK8 the Infinity (Anime)
Genre: It's not really a relationship but they do kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29392197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chirospasms/pseuds/chirospasms
Summary: Underneath the well-to-do florist persona, Hiromi knows he's not a great guy. He's not much to look at. His hobbies are strange. He's got a quick temper.But... He's notthatkind of bad.
Relationships: Higa Hiromi | Shadow/Chinen Miya
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	baby's breath

**Author's Note:**

> I... dunno. 
> 
> I always wind up suckering myself into pairings where there's some pretty boy and a not so pretty boy, what can I say... And then I'm a sucker for awkward crushes... Age stuff... Size differences... I'm completely defenseless here, leave me alone.
> 
> As always, this is completely unedited! Ahahhh. Forgive me, anybody who actually gives this a read.

He’s working a day shift on the weekend. The atmosphere on a Saturday is different from the weekday evenings. 

Weekdays are full of salarymen returning home from their long work hours and rushing to have something to impress their wives with. Their interest in the art of flower arrangement is a passing thing, their input on the sorts of flowers their loved ones enjoy is usually lacking. It can be a real pain when somebody puts the fate of their relationship in the hands of one lone florist. Hiromi’s been on the other end of calls about how it’s his fault that a bouquet had triggered allergies or gotten somebody dumped one too many times, as if the flowers were ever really the problem. It’s stressful, it’s annoying.

Weekends like this one, at least, tend to be full of customers who are a smidge more thoughtful. People who know exactly what they want, or at least a general idea. People with occasions more special than trying to please their partners after an argument–usually. People with plans. Sometimes, too many plans. He’s glad that this one holds no weddings or holidays that need large deliveries or extra hands around the shop. It means he gets one-on-one time with his manager–

Or, he would, if it weren’t so busy for no good reason. He’s barely had the time to talk with her outside of inquiring about orders and where that spool of ribbon from yesterday had gone.

By the time his shift finishes, he’s feeling a little disheartened despite the amount of smiles he’s managed to put on other’s faces. 

He’s lamenting the hopefully temporary loss of ‘S’ right about now as he tidies up in the back room and removes his apron; he could use some time on his skateboard as escapism.

“Hiromi!”

The manager. All that mourning is immediately shoved away. Maybe she’s asking if he can stay later. He doesn’t _love_ the idea of continuing to work, but if it means more time with her, then maybe by the end of the night they can have dinner together or something– 

“Somebody’s here for you!”

It takes everything to cover up the disappointment on his face as he turns the corner. No overtime with the manager after all.

He’s not exactly surprised to see one of those skateboarding brats, but he is a little surprised to see that, out of the lot of them, it’s _this_ one.

His first thought is “ _shouldn’t this kid be in school_ ”, and then when he remembers it’s the weekend, “ _doesn’t this kid have anything better to do? Friends his age to hang out with?_ ”

Pity grabs at him before he can help it.

“Miya?”

“Hey, old man,” Miya greets, and all that pity might as well be scattered on the floor with the petals that the manager is sweeping up. She laughs, setting the broom aside.

“Oh, you two are that close? Who’s this, Hiromi?”

Miya rocks back on the heels of his neon-colored sneakers and gives him the most shit-eating grin. Daring Hiromi to tell the woman he’s clearly got a crush on that this thirteen year old standing in the middle of the shop is not some family member or wayward lost child, but somebody Hiromi might passingly call a _friend_.

“Ahh, this is… My nephew.”

“Nephew! I didn’t know you had siblings with children. You two don’t look alike at all,” his manager says with another laugh. 

“We’re not blood-related,” Miya chimes in, and Hiromi doesn’t know whether he should feel grateful that Miya is playing along or still want to smack the grin off of his face.

“Ooh, I see. Well! Don’t let me keep the two of you if you’ve got plans. Hiromi, have a good weekend!” 

* * *

The car must be Miya’s real goal, because he looks annoyed when Hiromi stomps right past it.

“What about the car?”

“It’s not like it’s mine. She might still need it for deliveries.”

“Ahh, you’re no help. What did I come all this way for when I could’ve used the train instead…”

Hiromi tuts, exasperated, and ruffles his hair around once they’re outside of the view of the shop and he doesn’t have to worry so much about keeping up an attempt at a friendly appearance. “What _did_ you come this way for?”

“A new skatepark opened up, but it’s kinda far.”

He snorts. That’s what this is about? 

“Well, if you needed a lift or a chaperone, you should have asked your parents.”

“They’re busy.”

“Reki or Langa.”

“Busy.”

So Hiromi is plan Z, then. As nice as the thought of blowing off steam on his board is, it’s less nice to think about when the catch is doing so at a skatepark with a kid going through puberty–a lot of them, probably, too, if it’s some grand opening. He’s not _old_ , but he’s not young enough that he thinks he’d be able to take the embarrassment of it all.

“Well, I’m not going. I just got off work. I’m tired.”

“You pick flowers all day. What’s so tiring about that?”

He scowls. He’s not about to explain the delicate art form of flower arrangement or the equally delicate balance of taking orders and pleasing customers to some middle school brat.

“Hah! What an ugly expression. That woman you work with is never going to fall for that thing. Hey, you like her, right?”

“Shuddup.” 

Miya looks smug. He looks something else, too, but Hiromi can’t put his finger on it. 

* * *

Annoyed by the leech at his side as he is, Hiromi’s not heartless.

He treats the kid to a meal. He was going to get food for himself anyway.

He’d like to say that it’s a real meal. Homecooked, filling, nutritious. 

It’s not, though. He’d just gone into the first convenience store on the way home that they’d passed by and insisted that the kid get something that wasn’t a drink and protein powder. 

Miya scoffs at the options Hiromi throws into his basket. Pre-made meals that the cashier up front will microwave for him. 

“You’re an old man that can’t even cook for himself. This is sad… You’re not really expecting me to eat something like this, right?”

“I’m not an old man, and I _can_ cook. _And_ I’m not going to take lip from a brat like you. One day you’re going to grow up and realize that sometimes this sort of thing is just easier.”

“And be like you? Eugh, I sure hope not.”

At least when he glowers, Miya is laughing too much to complain about the two onigiri Hiromi puts into his basket for him.

* * *

One way or another, they wind up eating at Hiromi’s apartment together.

Miya is hard to shake off, that’s all, and if the kid is desperate enough for company that he’d eschewed his plans to go to some shiny new skatepark to hang out with a guy in his mid-twenties instead, then, well. Hiromi can’t argue with it. He feels too bad for him.

“I kind of thought you’d still live with your parents or that it would be really dirty here or something.”

Ugh. Not that bad, though.

“Just how depressing do you think my life is?”

Miya gives him a look that says it all before biting into his food, using rice and seaweed and tuna as a convenient excuse to not say a word out loud.

“Kids really don’t hold back,” Hiromi complains.

“I’m not a kid.”

“Then don’t talk with food in your mouth.”

* * *

Hiromi isn’t much the gaming sort, but Miya manages to ransack the meager collection he has anyhow, and they spend a stupid amount of time playing an assortment of racing games–naturally–that Hiromi is not happy to say he loses the majority of, save for one old title that Miya says Hiromi had probably been playing since before he himself was even a thought in his parents’ heads and therefore Hiromi’s wins didn’t count. 

“What a sore loser,” Hiromi gripes, tossing his controller onto his coffee table. It’s secondhand; it doesn’t match the rest of his furniture at all. 

“Hey! Pick that back up, I still need to beat you.”

“You already beat me at a hundred other games.” 

He stands up to stretch, glancing at a clock on the wall, and then in the direction of one of his windows. The sun hasn’t fully set yet, but it’s already gone pretty dark. He needs to take his laundry down from where it’s been hanging since early this morning, among a number of other little chores here and there. “You should be getting home, anyway.”

Miya grumbles. It’s incoherent. He’s still got his controller gripped tight in both hands, unwilling to give it up and get up.

Not for the first time today, Hiromi feels that stab of pity. 

He takes a deep breath.

“Is… Is there trouble at home, or something?”

Miya’s head snaps up. His eyes are wide, but his brow is wrinkled and his mouth is set ajar in disbelief.

“What? Ugh, no. I wouldn’t mope to _you_ about that sort of thing anyway.”

That’s cold, but the real answer he’d been looking for is genuine, Hiromi’s pretty sure. Again, not for the first time today, Hiromi retracts the pity. What he’s got on his hands right now is just a bored child who doesn’t want to give up their source of entertainment, apparently.

And, okay. He’s probably a really lonely kid. 

“All right. Well. You can’t stay here forever.”

“One more,” Miya pleads, patting the spot next to himself. “I won’t feel right if my win rate’s messed up.”

“It was hardly messed up to begin with. You beat me in everything else,” Hiromi says, but he sits back down with a grunt and grabs the controller. One more. 

* * *

Barely a minute later, and it’s looking like it’s going to be one more that he wins over Miya again. 

He can feel the boy shifting beside him, sees out the corner of his eye as he takes one hand off of the controller to wipe his sweaty palm off on his shorts. Isn’t it getting a little too cold out for those things? 

“It’s so old that the controls are so unresponsive,” he defends when he catches Hiromi looking, clearly annoyed that the man doesn’t even have to look at the screen to continue beating him. “You’re ancient, so you’re used to things being slow.”

Hiromi snorts.

There’s one more lap to go. 

He’s way closer to the finish line than Miya. 

Well. He is until he isn’t. 

Maybe he is old. Maybe his reaction time really is slow. He doesn’t see it coming at all when Miya practically throws himself into his lap and kisses him, clumsy and hard.

It’s not even a weird–wrong, wrong, _wrong–_ defensive tactic for the game. He can just barely see Miya’s car doing just as much off-road veering.

Worse, that loose grip on the reality before him doesn’t even keep him from instinctively kissing the boy back. 

Just for a second, though. Only a second. He puts his hands on Miya’s slim shoulders and pushes him, gentle but unyielding, until their mouths aren’t touching and they’re looking each other in the eyes. 

Before he can say a word, Miya jumps out of his lap with the cat-like quickness Hiromi has vaguely come to associate him with. 

“I’m. Going.”

“Wait–” He’s got to be the rational adult here. He _is_ the adult here. “We have to talk about that.”

“No, we don’t.” Miya’s already halfway across the room, struggling to get his shoes back on at the door.

“ _Miya–_ it’s late. I’m at least going to walk you home.” He’s just a kid. As independent as kids tend to be around here, Hiromi’s not about to let one wander in the dark. 

Miya glares, but Hiromi’s already by the door as well getting his own shoes back on and he must sense that he can’t win this one, because he doesn’t make a peep.

* * *

He doesn’t speak the whole way, actually, not until they’re at a quiet, lonely bus stop lit by a flickering street lamp. Hiromi doesn’t speak, either, but only because he has _no fucking idea_ what to say and Miya’s on his skateboard, rolling at a careful distance in front of him. Enough that anything he says loud enough to carry over the noise of the wheels is going to feel a little _too_ loud, given the topic. A conversation like the one they need to have is the last thing he needs anybody overhearing from their bedroom window.

“This bus stops practically right in front of my house. You don’t have to follow me anymore.” 

“Okay,” Hiromi agrees, finally getting close enough to feel comfortable speaking as Miya picks his board up. “That…”

“Can we not?”

“That was really inappropriate. I shouldn’t have kissed you back, either.”

“Okay! I get it. I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were. It’s just, ya know. You’re…”

“A kid. Yeah, _I get it_. You don’t have to worry. I don’t– I don’t _like you_ or anything. I just wanted to try it.”

Hiromi’s not the greatest with people, but even he can tell Miya’s words aren’t completely truthful. He shifts his weight, feeling horribly awkward and not at all like the responsible and calm adult he should be right now. 

“Okay,” he says again, slower this time. It might be easier to just… Let this go. “Uhm. As long as it doesn’t happen again. You should be… Having relationships with people your own age. Or, not being in relationships at all? I don’t know, whatever is normal or whatever your parents are okay with…”

Miya sneers at him. “Got it. Seriously, I wouldn’t have a crush on a fat old man like you.”

Yeah. He’ll roll with that insult this time, no problem. A kid like Miya definitely wouldn’t want an old guy like him, just as it should be. 

And, of course, he wouldn’t dream of a cute kid like Miya in that way, either. 

A _regular_ , not at all cute kid, he means. 

The bus pulls up. Miya’s quick to head for the door as it slides open. 

“Later, old man. Don’t fall on your way home, nobody’ll be able to pick you up off the ground.”

Not cute at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it here, congrats!


End file.
